A Halcyon Sea
by Mariner
Summary: It was time to face facts, Norrington decided. He was doomed to be forever plagued by attractive women with absolutely no sense of social propriety.


**Chapter 1**

"Miss Victoria Talbot to see you, sir."

"Thank you, Jennings." James Norrington took one last weary look at the report he'd been reading and set it down on top of the pile of similar reports that threatened to engulf his desk. "Talbot, you say?" The name didn't sound at all familiar. "She doesn't have an appointment, does she?" That would be embarrassing. Norrington wasn't usually given to forgetting names or appointments, but it had been a long day.

"I'm afraid not, sir." Jennings looked vaguely apologetic. "She arrived on the _Alexandrina_ this morning."

"Then show her in, by all means." The _Alexandrina_ was the first ship to arrive from England in over three months, and Port Royal was all abuzz over it. The harbor turned into a fairground as local peddlers set out their wares near the docks to tempt the disembarking sailors, while the townspeople crowded the piers. Norrington had sent out double the usual contingent of Marines to look out for pickpockets and keep the whores and brawlers in line, but he suspected it wouldn't do much good. The town was much too full of high spirits. A ship from England meant long-awaited visitors, letters and packages, goods for the local businesses -- all manner of excitement.

Unless one was the commodore, in which case it meant paperwork. Norrington had met with Captain Sawyer earlier in the day and received a thick packet of Admiralty documents from London, along with a number of reports and dispatches from the _Alexandrina_'s brief stop in Nassau, as well as from a number of ships she'd encountered during her journey. He'd then spent the rest of the day sorting through endless -- and highly repetitive -- descriptions of increased Spanish activity in the waters around Jamaica. He was more than ready for an interruption, as Jennings had no doubt anticipated when he'd decided to announce a visitor without an appointment.

And now he was ushering that visitor into the office, and Norrington had to tear his thoughts away from the joys of twenty-page coded dispatches and rise to his feet.

"Miss Talbot. Welcome to Port Royal."

Victoria Talbot was clutching a bulky oilcloth-wrapped parcel that was obviously too cumbersome for her. Jennings, walking behind her, looked deeply affronted at not being allowed to take charge of it. Norrington moved to take it, and she dumped it into his arms with a relieved sigh.

"Thank you, Commodore. I had promised not to put this into anyone's hands but your own, which was a little rash, now that I think of it. But you can bear witness that I've kept my word."

"You certainly have." Norrington set the parcel on the desk and bent to kiss Miss Talbot's hand. He didn't have to bend far. She was nearly as tall as he was, and made to look even taller by a wide-brimmed bonnet that would probably be setting a new trend in Port Royal within days. The face under the bonnet was of the sort that generally got described as "handsome," meaning just a little too long in the nose and too square in the jaw for prettiness.

"I hope I'm not imposing," she said. "Perhaps I should've waited before coming to bother you, but I admit to being curious to meet you. Your sister has told me so much about you."

"Oh?" Norrington did his best not to look suspicious. "Which sister?"

"Margaret."

That was all right, then. "You're not imposing at all, Miss Talbot. Do sit down. Would you like some tea? Jennings, some tea and biscuits, please."

He pushed a chair over, and Miss Talbot sank into it with an awkward totter, as if she was expecting it to move at the last moment. It seemed that her sea legs hadn't quite reverted to land yet.

"You were afraid I was going to say Georgiana," she said, "weren't you?"

"The possibility had occurred to me," he admitted, "though I have trouble imagining any of Georgiana's friends setting one dainty foot on a ship, let alone undertaking an ocean crossing this early in the year."

"Much too crude for them," Miss Talbot agreed solemnly. "Cramped cabins, terrible food, and absolutely _no_ place to dance, anywhere. Surely, no decent woman could endure it."

"Indeed." Norrington recalled his younger sister's reaction to her one shipboard visit, the day before he sailed for the Caribbean. The _Dauntless_ had been docked at Portsmouth, on a day so fine and calm, the sea had looked like a mirror. Yet Georgiana had clung to the railing as if she had expected to be pitched off her feet at any moment. "And how are Margaret and George and the boys?"

"Very well, all of them. I have letters for you from them, and from Georgiana, and from your parents. They're all in that parcel, along with a present for you, which you really should unwrap now. I have been instructed to watch you open it and to send back a detailed report of your reaction."

"Oh?" Intrigued now, Norrington cut the string off the parcel with his pocketknife and peeled off the oilskin. Inside was the promised bundle of family letters and a square wooden box with a hinged lid. He raised the lid, noting as he did so that Miss Talbot was leaning forward with an expression of genuine curiosity on her face.

Inside the box was a foot-high replica of a ship of the line, clearly made by a child. The masts were just a little askew, little dabs of glue were visible at the seams, and the figurehead might have been a lion or a rhinoceros, but the sails and rigging were arranged properly enough, complete with skysails and jibs. Norrington lifted it gently from the box and turned it around to see "Dauntless" inked in neat schoolboy letters on a strip across the stern.

"Oh my. Did Henry make that all by himself?"

"I understand he had some help from the gardener. And little Georgie made that... that clay thing on the front. But mostly, yes, it was Henry. It's meant to congratulate you on your promotion. He was so excited when the news came. Ran around for days, telling anyone who would listen that his uncle James was in charge of a _whole squadron_ in Jamaica, and that he's going to go and join the Navy as soon as he's twelve. Margaret says it's all your fault, corrupting the boy with letters full of storms and battles and chases after pirates."

"He's even painted the port-lids red on the inside." James turned the ship from side to side, amused and touched at this evidence of hero-worship from a nephew he remembered only as an infant. "It must've taken him days."

"Two weeks. Oh, and I'm to tell you that if you turn the little wheel at the helm, the rudder will move."

Norrington turned the little wheel at the helm. The rudder moved. He did it again.

"I take it," Miss Talbot said, "that I can report the gift as a success?"

Norrington felt his face grow warm as he became aware of the picture he must've been presenting, sitting there grinning like an idiot, playing with a toy ship.

"You may tell Henry I'm very impressed with his workmanship," he said stiffly and carried the ship to the curio cabinet at the far side of the room, where he had to shift a giant nautilus shell and a small bronze Buddha in order to make space for it. Miss Talbot watched him with amusement.

"Are you certain you want to lock it away so soon?" she asked. "You might want to play some more."

He was saved from having to respond to that by the arrival of Jennings, who wheeled in a cart loaded not only with tea and biscuits but also sandwiches, scones and a little pot of clotted cream. Norrington's stomach forcibly reminded him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He waited for Miss Talbot to select a sandwich, then quickly claimed one for himself.

"So," he said, "tell me all the news I won't find in these letters."

* * *

Miss Talbot stayed for over an hour, going through two pots of tea as she entertained Norrington with tales of their mutual acquaintances in England. She had a prodigious memory and a gift for mimicry. Her impression of Georgiana discovering she'd accidentally snubbed an earl at a dinner party, delivered just as Norrington took a mouthful of tea, had him sputtering helplessly into his napkin. Somewhere along the way, he changed his opinion of her looks. She had a very pretty face, really; it only needed a smile to put everything into perfect proportion. 

"And what about you?" he asked when she began to wind down. "You've given me a decade's worth of gossip, and not a thing about yourself. Surely you didn't come to the Caribbean merely to bring me a package. Do you have family in Port Royal?"

"No, I'm here acting as secretary for my father, Sir Bartholomew Talbot. We're going to continue on with Captain Sawyer."

"What, for the rest of his journey?" Norrington couldn't quite keep his startled reaction out of his voice. The _Alexandrina_ was on her way to circumnavigating the globe -- a long, arduous and highly dangerous voyage that even experienced navy men didn't undertake lightly. He couldn't imagine what would possess a father to drag his daughter along on such a trip.

"I know what you're thinking," Miss Talbot said, "but Father was never the protective type, and really, what's the use of having a spinster daughter who takes shorthand if you can't put her to work? Besides, I'm used to his ways, I can decipher his handwriting, and I have a decent knowledge of astronomy. He couldn't possibly hire anyone more suitable for the job."

Norrington reflected that being well-suited for a secretarial job would not keep one safe from pirates, or scurvy, or from storms in the Magellan Straits, or from savages in the Pacific Islands. It was, unfortunately, none of his business, and Miss Talbot looked quite prepared to be offended if he pressed the point. Norrington decided that a change of subject was in order.

"Your father is an astronomer, then?"

"Yes. He has some ideas about determining longitude from lunar observations, but the star charts at the Royal Academy aren't precise enough for his calculations. So he decided to go and make his own."

"What sort of method?" Norrington asked curiously. Miss Talbot smiled and shook her head.

"I'm afraid even I don't know the full details. Father's very secretive about it. There's a great deal of money involved, you know."

"Yes, of course. The Longitude Prize." Norrington, like any sailor worth his salt, followed the tales of that particular competition with intense curiosity. Lunar methods were fashionable at the moment, he knew, though his own experience had proved them cumbersome and much too dependent on the weather. "I wish you both luck, then."

"We'll need it," Miss Talbot said bluntly. "We've got competition sailing right along with us. Capain Sawyer is testing a new kind of clock that's supposed to keep perfect time at sea. Some man named Harrison has built it in Lincolnshire, I gather."

"Oh?" Norrington put his cup down. "And how's that working?"

"Irritatingly well," Miss Talbot said wryly. "It lost less than a minute on the trip from Portsmouth."

"Impressive."

"Yes. Father is very put out."

Norrington watched her curiously. "But you don't seem to be."

"I am, a little. It would make Father happy to win the prize. And the money would be great fun, of course. But it's not as if we'll starve without it. And in the end, the best man -- or clock -- will win, and I'll have traveled around the world. How many people can say that?"

"Not many," Norrington admitted. She looked so thrilled at the prospect that he found it difficult to hold on to his misgivings. "I hope you find the world to your liking, Miss Talbot."

"Thank you," she said happily, "I know I will."

Chapter 2

"We haven't gone to war with Spain, have we?" Norrington glared at the reports in front of him in the vague hope that they would be intimidated into revealing something useful. He was well and truly sick of these reports, having spent all day going over them at the fort. Yet here he was, going over them yet again in Weatherby Swann's library. At least there was brandy and the memory of a fine dinner to bolster him. "I know news takes a while to travel here, but surely somebody would've mentioned it by now."

"Maybe it's meant to be a surprise," Swann suggested with a faint smile that didn't match the worry in his eyes. "I'd almost be willing to believe it, if any of these ships were Spanish navy. But what we seem to have is..."

"What we seem to have," Norrington said, "is every damned pirate ship in the Spanish Main suddenly getting an attack of patriotism and deciding to target only the English. Particularly Jamaica. Particularly Port Royal."

It was downright insulting. He had spent nearly a decade working to turn Port Royal into a place every pirate in the Caribbean knew to stay away from. He'd fought for it, bled for it, badgered the Admiralty for ships and men and money -- a task he'd found far more distasteful than fighting and bleeding. He knew perfectly well that he was very good at what he did. Of all the pirate ships he'd ever gone after, only the _Black Pearl_ had slipped away from him, and the _Pearl_ hadn't been seen in English waters since Sparrow's escape. The latest rumor had her making mischief somewhere in the Netherlands Antilles. Sea travel in the Caribbean had started to become downright boring, and James Norrington was proud to say he'd had a hand in making it that way.

Yet now, here was a fleet of piratical Spaniards acting as if English ships were easy prey. Most of them had been proven satisfyingly mistaken in that assumption. But two weeks before, a packet-boat had been heavily damaged before managing to evade her attackers, and a merchant ship was sunk in the Windward Passage, with only a handful of survivors struggling into Port Royal in a longboat.

"Can you send out more patrol ships?" Swann asked. Norrington shook his head.

"I've already got every available ship either on patrol or on escort duty. And I've sent messages to Nassau and Georgetown, asking them to do the same. They've had their share of trouble this past month, though nothing like what we've seen."

"Yes, we do seem to have been singled out." Swann frowned and drummed his fingers on the table. "Which makes me wonder, actually. Do you think this whole thing might be a... a vendetta of some sort? Against you."

The notion was appalling and flattering at the same time. Norrington's first impulse was to dismiss it out of hand, but he forced himself to consider it dispassionately. Certainly, he'd given enough pirates a reason to hold a grudge. Enough, perhaps, for some of them to band together in an attempt to discredit him, or to draw him into a confrontation.

"It's a possibility," he admitted, "but all these attacks don't give me the impression of having a concerted plan behind them. And it's not the way pirates operate, really. A direct attack on Port Royal, I could see. An assassination attempt, maybe. But not something this convoluted. Still, it's worth checking into."

He looked down at the report on top of the pile, which happened to be from the _Alexandrina_. She'd had what may or may not have been a narrow escape two days before reaching Jamaica, when she came across another ship, which was flying British colors and a distress flag. Captain Sawyer had begun to approach when his second mate claimed to have recognized the ship as Spanish. So Sawyer had approached with his cannons ready to fire and his crew armed and mustered on deck -- at which point the supposedly distressed ship had made sail and departed with startling speed.

"I need to speak with Sawyer again," Norrington muttered. "He or one of his men might've seen something that-- what?"

Swann was watching him with undisguised amusement. "You don't care about Sawyer's report," he said, "you just want to see his clock."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Norrington said stolidly.

Swann smirked into his brandy snifter.

* * *

Captain Sawyer had little of value to add to his original report. A review of his log merely confirmed the information Norrington already had. Neither Sawyer nor his second mate were certain that the ship they had encountered had really been a pirate, or even Spanish. 

"For all we know," the second mate admitted ruefully, "it really was an English ship in distress, and the other captain saw us coming on with our gun ports open, took _us_ for pirates and ran. But he ran awful well for someone who was flying a distress flag just minutes before."

So in matters of Spanish pirates, Norrington's morning was a failure. In matters of clocks, however, it was a great success. Sawyer proved more than willing to show off his miraculous device. He was a Lincolnshire man himself, and appeared to take a sort of local pride in John Harrison's achievement.

"Some piece of work, ain't it?" He patted the gleaming glass case with a proprietary grin. "Bet you've not seen anything like this in the Caribbean."

"Remarkable." Norrington crouched to get a closer look at the intricate arrangement of wheels and gears that moved in stately rhythm beneath the glass. The clock was beautiful, as much a piece of art as a machine, the loving hand of a master craftsman visible in every polished piece. He was instantly entranced, the same way he'd been entranced by Henry's model ship, or by the sword he still buckled on every morning despite the host of unpleasant associations attached to its perfectly balanced blade. "It never needs cleaning, you say?"

"No cleaning, no lubrication, no adjustments. Stuck it in this here corner the day before we sailed, and never touched it since. It's been perfect all on its own."

A loud "Harrumph!" greeted this pronouncement. Norrington looked over his shoulder to see a tall, thin man in gold-rimmed spectacles standing stoop-shouldered in the doorway. The man's face was a thinner, more angular version of Victoria Talbot's, though Norrington was fairly sure that Miss Talbot would never have appeared in public with a thumbprint-sized smear of ink on her chin.

"Sir Bartholomew." Sawyer's smile grew a trifle strained. "I thought you'd gone ashore."

"Came back to fetch some of my papers. Heard you blathering on about that clock of yours as I was going by." Sir Bartholomew lowered his head until his spectacles slid down to the very tip of his long nose. He peered over the rims at Norrington. "I wouldn't put much faith into that contraption if I were you, Commodore. Machines made by man suffer from all the faults of man. They fail, and lie, and break down with time. Heaven, on the other hand, is the perfect clockwork. The stars stay where God put them, gentlemen, and you can always--"

"Father." Miss Talbot's amused voice drifted in from outside. Are you lecturing again?"

"Merely stating the obvious, dear." Sir Bartholomew pushed his glasses back up his nose and tugged his coat sleeves down to cover the cuffs of his shirt. If Captain Sawyer gets to present his case, then I should make mine too, shouldn't I?"

"Save it for the Longitude Board." Miss Talbot appeared at her father's side, clutching a battered leather notebook and a sheaf of loose papers. "Good morning, Captain. Commodore. Father, I found those notes you wanted, so please stop bothering these gentlemen and come back to shore with me. And wipe that ink off your chin."

"Sir Bartholomew wasn't bothering us," Sawyer said gallantly (but not, Norrington suspected, sincerely). Miss Talbot gave him a wry smile.

"Then he was about to. But he'll have to do it another time, because we have a carriage waiting. Besides, he promised to take me and Mrs. Abernathy to see the old lighthouse on the south side of the island. I hear it's a particularly picturesque spot, and I want to make a sketch of it for my travel journal."

"I promised nothing of the kind," Sir Bartholomew objected, his voice somewhat muffled by the handkerchief he was using to scrub at his chin. "I said I'd think about it. And I've found out since that it takes nearly an hour to get there by carriage, and frankly, Victoria, I can't see my way to wasting half an afternoon just to see an empty ruin, however picturesque it might be."

"Oh." A disappointed expression flitted across Miss Talbot's face, but she shrugged it off with every appearance of ease. "I'll have to find someone else to escort me, then. But we really must go now, Father, before the driver goes off with all our trunks."

She took her father's arm and drew him away from the door. On an impulse, Norrington hurried after them.

"Miss Talbot?"

She stopped. "Yes, Commodore?"

"I have some time free tomorrow afternoon." That wasn't actually true, but he could make the time if he put his mind to it. "I'd be happy to escort you and your companion to the lighthouse, if your father doesn't object."

Sir Bartholomew looked faintly confused at the idea of having to object to anything not involving a clock. Miss Talbot favored Norrington with that amazing smile.

"That would be lovely, Commodore. Assuming it's no trouble..."

"None at all. Where shall I find you?"

"The Blue Harbor Inn."

"Can you meet me outside at four o'clock?"

"I'll be ready."

"Until tomorrow, then."

Lieutenant Gillette would've been quite shocked to see the commodore _whistling_ as he returned to Captain Sawyer's cabin.

Chapter 3

It had not occurred to Norrington that he might attract notice simply by walking into the Blue Harbor in the middle of the afternoon dressed in civilian clothes. In retrospect, he supposed it should've. His daily routine was well known in Port Royal, and any variation was bound to be viewed as fodder for speculation and gossip. The shopkeepers eating dinner at the corner table looked just as unabashedly curious as the servants. Norrington resolutely ignored them as he walked over to the bar, pulled up a stool and ordered a glass of claret. He was ten minutes early, and therefore did not expect to see Miss Talbot for at least a quarter of an hour, but she surprised him by appearing at his side almost immediately.

"Good day, Commodore." She placed a lidded basket on the stool next to his. "I had the kitchen make up a picnic for us. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. I wish I'd thought of it myself." Norrington stood. "Are you and your friend ready to go, then? I have the carriage waiting outside."

Something bumped his leg just above the ankle. He looked down, and found a pair of big coffee-brown eyes staring back at him.

"Well, hello there. And who might you be?"

"That," Miss Talbot said, "is Mrs. Abernathy."

Norrington was not an easy man to fluster, but he was deeply grateful to not have been holding his wineglass when that particular revelation struck.

"_That's_ Mrs. Abernathy?"

"Yes."

"She's a Scottish Terrier."

Mrs. Abernathy barked twice and attempted to poke her nose into Norrington's left boot top. Her tail wagged with such vigor that her entire hindquarters jiggled.

"She certainly is." Miss Talbot appeared to find nothing unusual in the situation. "You were expecting a different breed?"

"I was expecting a person." Norrington gave her his best Officially Disapproving Glare. "As you knew perfectly well."

"True." She had the grace to look abashed, though not, to Norrington's mind, nearly as much as she should've. "I know I should've said something. But you were so obviously expecting a respectable female chaperone, I just couldn't stand to disappoint you."

"But you've no qualms about disappointing me now?"

Miss Talbot winced. "You're angry. I'm sorry."

"I'm not angry. But I don't like to be manipulated."

"I wasn't--"

"I made an offer under a misapprehension." Which, now that he thought about it, was his own bloody fault. There was no one named Abernathy on the _Alexandrina_'s passenger list, and the Talbots hadn't had time to make any acquaintances in Port Royal. He could've worked it out, if he hadn't been so embarrassingly anxious to be of service. "I wouldn't have made it if I'd understood the situation, and you knew it. Which was why you didn't say anything."

Miss Talbot bit her lip and looked away for a moment, then gave a little shake of her head and faced him squarely again.

"Are you retracting your offer, then?"

"I must. We can't go off on a picnic with only a Scottish Terrier for a chaperone."

"Why not?"

"Because it would be inappropriate."

"You have my father's permission."

"And do you intend to explain this to every gossip in Port Royal?"

"I don't intend to explain anything to anybody." Miss Talbot sensibly kept her voice down, but the stubborn set of her jaw suggested that this was as sensible as she was going to get. "I'm not a fool, Commodore. I've seen enough of the world to know that _your_ reputation will suffer no lasting harm from any talk we might inspire. As for my own -- I will be leaving Port Royal in a few days, and unless your local scandal-mongers have found a way to forward their gossip to Tahiti, it will be months, maybe even years before I again find myself in a place where my reputation matters. By then, no one will remember or care that a middle-aged spinster of no great fortune, no great beauty and no marriage prospects whatsoever once went on an unchaperoned outing with a navy officer. So I'm sorry I mislead you. It was unfair of me. If I promise to never do it again, can we please go?"

It was time to face facts, Norrington decided. He was doomed to be forever plagued by attractive women with absolutely no sense of social propriety. He drained the remains of his claret in one gulp and picked up the picnic basket.

"Very well," he said, "let's go."

There was, perhaps, a slight awkwardness between them as Norrington helped Miss Talbot into the hired carriage. But no amount of social awkwardness can survive being trapped in a small enclosed space with a Scottish Terrier. Mrs. Abernathy started the trip peacefully enough, curled against Miss Talbot's feet, but before long the temptation of the picnic basket proved too much for her. Norrington was forced to fight a desperate defensive action until Miss Talbot could get into position to capture the enemy.

"You'll have to forgive her," she said, pulling a squirming, whining bundle into her lap and holding it there with a firm grip. "She's been cooped up on a ship for much too long."

"I don't doubt it." Norrington pulled out his handkerchief and tried to discreetly dab the dog drool from his sleeve. "Whatever possessed you to bring a pet on such a long voyage?"

"Oh, I didn't bring her. She just turned up in the hold about three days after we sailed. She had a collar on, so we guess she must be someone's escaped pet. I suppose I sort of adopted her. Or she adopted me." Miss Talbot rubbed the dog's ears, eliciting an ecstatic squeal in response. "I think she sensed a kindred spirit."

"You plan to take her all the way around the world, then?"

"I expect so. Unless I find a good home for her here.

"If that was a hint," Norrington said, "I'm steadfastly ignoring it."

* * *

Miss Talbot pronounced herself delighted with the old lighthouse. She clapped her hands. She explored every inch of the ground floor, accepted with reasonably good grace Norrington's adamant refusal to let her climb the rickety remains of the spiral staircase and admired the view from the cliff path. She took off her shoes and stockings to walk in the surf, while Norrington sat on a rock and resolutely did not stare at her ankles. They ate their picnic on a flat sun-warmed boulder just above the high tide line. Afterwards, Miss Talbot settled down with her sketchbook and a box of charcoals and Norrington tossed pieces of driftwood for Mrs. Abernathy, who chased them with panting enthusiasm. The dog's liquid brown gaze grew more adoring every time he praised her. 

"If you keep that up," Miss Talbot called out to him, "she's going to adopt you in my stead."

"Far be it from me to come between a dog and its mistress." Norrington returned to the rock and sat down at Miss Talbot's side. "May I see your drawing?"

"It's not finished," Miss Talbot protested, but she made no attempt to cover the page when Norrington peered over her shoulder.

The sketch showed the narrow strip of beach leading up to the jagged rise where the lighthouse stood. In the foreground, a palm tree leaned diagonally across the page to frame a triangle of sand, sea and clouds beneath its trunk. Near the center of the triangle was a silhouette of himself, from the back, standing with one arm upraised to throw.

"That's very good," Norrington said. Miss Talbot looked doubtful.

"It's technically competent," she said, "and not much more. But I don't mind. It's meant to be an aid to my memory, not art. When I'm a decrepit old woman in a rocking chair, I shall drag these albums out for unfortunate visitors and bore them silly with long-winded stories of my travels. And they will have to listen, because one can't be rude to decrepit old women."

"You sound positively gleeful at the prospect."

"Oh, I am. I've already picked out the hideous hats I'm going to wear, and the cane I'll beat the servants with."

Norrington ducked his head and smiled. When he looked up again, Miss Talbot was watching him curiously.

"Why do you always do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Hide your face when you're smiling."

"I don't know," he said, startled. "I hadn't even realized I was doing it. Habit, I suppose." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Miss Talbot's searching gaze was making him acutely self-conscious and desperate to change the subject. "Have you made other sketches on your trip? May I see?"

She had, in fact, made nearly a dozen sketches on the _Alexandrina_. Her father, bent over a book. Mrs. Abernathy, chewing on what appeared to be some unfortunate fellow's shoe. An anonymous sailor, swinging from the rigging. Numerous studies of sunlight filtering through clouds.

"Not much scenery on an Atlantic crossing, I'm afraid," she said. "Perhaps there will be more variety to come. New scenery. Strange, exotic beasts. Natives in grass skirts... Maybe I'll have to wear a grass skirt. When in Rome and all that."

"I doubt that will prove necessary," Norrington said. Miss Talbot gave him a sidelong glance.

"You disapprove of me going, don't you?"

"I do, somewhat," he admitted. "But not for the reason you believe. I think it's a very dangerous and unpleasant thing to be undertaking merely to save your father the expense of a secretary, that's all."

"But you go to dangerous places and do unpleasant things all the time."

"I have a duty to go where I'm sent and do what I'm told."

"And that's the only reason you do it?"

"Well..." He looked down at his hands. "Not entirely."

"You should understand, then."

"I understand," he sighed. "I said I disapprove of the danger, I didn't say I condemn you."

A gust of wind rustled the pages of Miss Talbot's notebook and sent Norrington grabbing for his hat. He looked toward the horizon, where the clouds, backlit by the setting sun, were beginning to look decidedly ominous.

"I think we'd better go back. I suspect it's going to rain."

Miss Talbot looked regretful, but laid down her sketchbook without protest and went to collect Mrs. Abernathy, while Norrington packed the remains of their picnic back into the basket. They climbed the cliff path side by side, with Miss Talbot clutching a wriggling Mrs. Abernathy and relying on Norrington's grip on her elbow to maintain her balance. They were nearly at the top when the crunch of feet on gravel signaled that they had company. A moment later, a familiar and slightly breathless voice exclaimed, "Commodore Norrington! We didn't know you were here."

And there it was again, after all this time -- the rush of heat to his face, the automatic stiffening in his shoulders.

"Mrs. Turner. Mr. Turner. Good evening."

Elizabeth stood in the middle of the path, her husband hovering awkwardly behind her. They had obviously just emerged from inside the lighthouse tower; the door that Norrington and Miss Talbot had shut after their own exploration was now slightly ajar. Turner was clutching a bundle of blankets in his arms and looking mortified. His hair was disheveled, his shirt collar undone. Elizabeth looked perfectly composed, but there was a smudge of dust on her cheek.

There was no avoiding it. Norrington made introductions. Turner bowed stiffly. The ladies curtsied and murmured greetings, watching each other with thinly disguised curiosity. Norrington hoped he didn't look as obviously discomfited as Turner, but suspected that he did.

He'd seen little of Elizabeth since her marriage put them in different social circles. Sometimes he'd run into her during his visits to her father's house. Swann was careful never to invite him when Elizabeth was expected, but she seldom scrupled to use a daughter's privilege to drop in unannounced. More often, he'd see her in town, chatting with a neighbor in the street, or haggling with cheerful gusto at the market stalls. Being a blacksmith's wife seemed to suit her better than being the governor's daughter ever had. Yet, introduced as the governor's daughter to a well-dressed stranger, she could still muster her social graces at a moment's notice.

"I hope we're not disturbing you," she was saying. "Will and I had just been watching the sunset. We didn't realize anyone else was here."

"I told you that carriage must be waiting for somebody," Turner muttered.

Norrington glanced toward the small copse of palm trees where their carriage waited, the driver asleep on the roof with his hat over his face. A small cart was now tied up just behind the carriage, with the smithy donkey munching contentedly on a shrub.

"You weren't disturbing us." He decided not to point out that the tower's one cracked and grimy window didn't provide an especially good view of the sunset. "We were just leaving to avoid the rain."

He barely had time to finish the sentence before a fat drop of water splattered on the ground at their feet.

"Too late," Elizabeth said cheerfully.

They ran for the trees together, laughing and clutching at their hats as the rain intensified. Norrington poked the carriage driver awake while Turner re-harnessed the donkey to the cart. Miss Talbot watched him with chagrin.

"You two aren't going back to town in that, are you? You'll get soaked."

"We're already soaked," Elizabeth pointed out. "Besides, a little water never hurt anybody."

Norrington took a deep breath. It was time to be gracious. Again. "Why don't you ride back with us? There's plenty of room."

Elizabeth looked hesitant. Turner looked as if he'd rather die. "I have to bring the cart back," he said.

Norrington was just starting to breathe a furtive sigh of relief when Miss Talbot said, "Let us take your wife, then. We promise to deliver her safely."

There was no graceful way out after that. Within minutes, Norrington found himself trying to keep a comfortable distance from his ex-fiancee in a rattling, bouncing carriage that smelled strongly of wet dog. Fortunately, the carriage was large enough that they didn't all have to squeeze together. The ladies shared the forward-facing seat, while Norrington sat across from them, in the corner farthest from Elizabeth, and pretended to be fascinated by the view out the window.

The ride back started out with polite small talk. Elizabeth admired Mrs. Abernathy and asked questions about England. Miss Talbot agreed that her dog was adorable and very well-behaved, shared anecdotes about London and Bath, and asked her own questions about life in the Caribbean. Norrington's original intent was to say as little as good manners allowed, but both women seemed determined to draw him into the conversation, and having given in to the inevitable, he found that it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. By the end of the trip, he and Miss Talbot were engaged in spirited debate about some finer points of astronomical navigation, while Elizabeth and Mrs. Abernathy played tug-of-war with a handkerchief. He was actually disappointed when the carriage pulled up in front of the smithy entrance and he had to get out and offer his arm to Elizabeth.

"Good luck," she whispered to him as she climbed down.

Norrington blinked at her. "Good luck with what?"

She just smiled at him over her shoulder and ducked inside.

It wasn't until several hours later that Norrington paused to contemplate the fact that he'd spent over an hour in very close proximity to Elizabeth Turner, and that he'd been focused on another woman the entire time.

Chapter 4

The gossips of Port Royal found their lives much enriched over the next week, as Norrington accompanied Miss Talbot to a chamber music recital at the DeLacey plantation, a meeting of the Amateur Astronomers' Society, and luncheon at the governor's house. Sir Bartholomew was duly present on all occasions, so the minor scandal of their first unchaperoned outing was not repeated; still, everyone who discussed the subject clearly viewed it as a matter of the commodore accompanying Miss Talbot, rather than the commodore accompanying Sir Bartholomew and daughter.

"I think," Miss Talbot remarked as she and Norrington strolled through Governor Swann's rose garden, Mrs. Abernathy trotting ahead of them with a businesslike air, "that I shall have to dye one of my dresses scarlet. The better to match my reputation." 

"You might start a fashion," Norrington said. "I have it on good authority from Governor Swann, who has it on good authority from Mrs. Turner, that the unmarried ladies of Port Royal have been instructing their dressmakers to copy your gowns."

"Really?" Miss Talbot looked down at her striped green skirt with a doubtful expression. "I don't suppose it would do any good to point out to them that I'm the worst possible example they could use? The next poor woman arriving from England is going to be horrified to find herself surrounded by dowdy spinsters. I'm almost sorry I won't be here to see it."

"I admit I'm no expert on ladies' fashions," Norrington said, "but I refuse to believe you've ever been categorized as dowdy."

"You've been in the Caribbean too long," Miss Talbot told him, and turned away rather abruptly to smell a fat pink rose that was blooming at the edge of the path.

Norrington's gaze lingered on the back of her neck as she bent over the blossom. It was an uncommonly fine neck, he decided, smooth and graceful of line. But that untidy coil of hair at the nape really needed to be let down. It would tumble right down to her hips if that big pearl-tipped pin came out, he was sure of it. He could twine his fingers in it and...

"Commodore?" Miss Talbot turned toward him again, frowning a little, and Norrington realized with a start that she'd been talking for sometime, and he'd been completely oblivious.

"I'm sorry, I was..." _staring at you and thinking impure thoughts_ "...woolgathering. What were you saying?"

Miss Talbot looked at him with a faint frown. "I was just wondering," she said, "if it would be possible to have a proper English garden in the Caribbean. With marigolds and lavender and Vesper flowers. I would think there's not enough rain for most of the year."

"People do attempt it," Norrington said, "with varying degree of success. But Jamaica will never be England, no matter how many roses we plant."

"No." Miss Talbot turned to gaze at the jagged line of mountains in the distance. "I don't suppose it will."

"Do you miss England?" Norrington asked. Miss Talbot shrugged.

"A little. Not enough to be sorry I've left, just enough to have a wistful moment from time to time."

Norrington thought that over for a while. "I suppose," he said cautiously, "that by the time you return to England, you'll be so sick of traveling that you'll never want to leave again."

"Oh, I don't know." Miss Talbot smiled. "Maybe I'll be in the habit by then, and staying in one place will seem too strange. Or maybe I'll spend a few months in London, under the gray skies and the rain, with nothing to do but crochet tea cozies and gossip with the neighbors, and I'll start remembering how much more fun the Caribbean was."

Norrington tried and failed to picture Miss Talbot crocheting a tea cozy. "You like the Caribbean, then?"

Miss Talbot glanced at him, blushed a faint pink, and quickly looked away again.

"Yes," she said, "I like the Caribbean a great deal."

Norrington remembered not to duck his head when he smiled.

* * *

"No ships attacked in over a week," Governor Swann said cheerfully as he and Norrington strolled across the courtyard in Fort Charles a couple of days later. "Perhaps our recent Spanish troubles are over." 

"I'd be thrilled if they were," Norrington said, "but I'm afraid it's too early to tell. It might be that the increased patrols have discouraged them for good, or it might be that they're just regrouping. It would help if we knew what they'd been after in the first place."

"That's the mystery, isn't it?" Swann sighed. "And if they've truly stopped, we may never know."

"If they've truly stopped," Norrington said, "I'm content not to know."

They climbed the steps to the top of the rampart and stood looking down at the harbor below. The siesta had begun and everything was still except for a small whirlpool of activity surrounding the _Alexandrina_, where Captain Sawyer was supervising a quartet of sluggish dockhands who were hauling crates of salt pork from dock to ship.

Twelve days, Norrington thought. Twelve more days before the _Alexandrina_ sailed.

Swann cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. "I went to view Captain Sawyer's clock yesterday," he said.

Norrington smiled. Captain Sawyer had made something of a public attraction of his -- or, rather, Harrison's -- clock, inviting anyone who'd stand still long enough to come aboard and see it. "What did you think of it?"

"Quite remarkable," Swann said, but he sounded as if his mind was on something else. "Ran into Sir Bartholomew and his daughter on the way back. Handsome woman, that Miss Talbot."

"Indeed." Dear God, was Swann about to announce an interest in Victoria Talbot? He'd seemed rather taken with her at luncheon the other day...

"You've spent a great deal of time with her these past few days. People are starting to talk." Despite the chiding words, Swann's face radiated good-natured approval.

_Oh._ The half-formed knot of tension in Norrington's chest dissolved into amused embarassment. "She's a good friend of Margaret's."

"Is that the reason, then?" Swann gave him a knowing smile. Norrington stared down at his shoes.

"It's one of the reasons."

Swann's smile turned into a full-fledged grin.

Chapter 5

For most of his tenure in the Caribbean, Norrington had steered clear of Tortuga. For one thing, he had no authority there; the place was currently owned -- in so far as it could be said to be owned at all -- by the French, and the inability to arrest everyone in sight was a source of great irritation. In addition, Norrington was well aware that every man, woman and child in the place wanted him dead, and he saw no reason to oblige them. Sometimes exceptions had to be made, however.

The _Stalwart_ was a packet-boat that traveled a regular route between Jamaica and points north. She'd struggled into Port Royal four days after she was due, badly damaged, her captain dead, and the surviving crew reporting an attack by a Spanish pirate ship called the _Esperanza_. The news had crushed all of Governor Swann's optimistic hopes of an end to their "Spanish troubles," but there was one tiny sliver of opportunity to be salvaged from the mess. The _Esperanza_, too had suffered damage in the battle, bad enough to need repairs. And the only port where she could put in for those repairs was Tortuga.

Which was why, on a fogbound night when no right-thinking sailor would leave port if he could help it, Norrington was sailing a commandeered fishing sloop into Tortuga Harbor, with a handpicked crew and two Spanish-speaking officers at his back.

They spent a hellish long time locating the _Esperanza_ in the fog. Once they did find her, everything else was almost disappointingly easy. Most of the crew were ashore, presumably doing something offensive. The half-dozen luckless pirates who'd been left behind to keep watch were all gathered in the galley with a cask of rum and a deck of cards. They were comically surprised to find themselves suddenly surrounded by heavily armed and grim-faced Englishmen. The resulting fight ended with one marine wounded, three pirates dead, and the remaining three bound and gagged and dumped none-too-gently into the sloop.

"Put them in the hold," Norrington said. "We'll question them once we're safely away."

The questioning was a frustrating process. Norrington paced the deck, and listened to the bursts of incomprehensible chatter flying back and forth, and wished he'd studied Spanish instead of French. The translators, long familiar with their commodore's ways, paused every now and then to summarize the conversation for him. But since every summary consisted of some variation on "They're denying everything, sir," the frustration continued to build.

Norrington's reserve of patience lasted a little under two hours.

"Lieutenant Gillette."

"Sir?" Gillette snapped to attention. The effect, combined with the shabby fisherman's garb he'd donned for the raid, was probably not what he'd intended. Norrington reminded himself that he probably looked no less ridiculous, and maintained a straight face.

"Have the boatswain attach three nooses to the main yardarm, and conduct these gentlement to main deck."

Gillette stared at him for a moment, obviously taken aback, but moved to obey before Norrington had to repeat the order. The three captive pirates watched the proceedings with identical blank expressions that suggested that their ignorance of the English language was not, in fact, feigned.

The blank looks quickly turned to panic when they saw the arrangements on deck. Two of the prisoners began to struggle and yell. The third attempted to put up a brave front, which lasted right up until the noose settled around his neck.

"We're waiting on your orders, sir," Gillette said.

"Keep waiting." Norrington clasped his hands behind his back and looked up and down at each pale-faced pirate in turn, taking his time about it. The young skinny one with the pockmarked face was the most likely candidate, he decided.

"Mr. Cooper?"

"Yes, Sir." One of the translators stepped forward.

"Ask that man on the left if he's remembered anything he might want to tell us."

This time, the stream of Spanish sounded a lot more promising than before.

"It seems there's a reward, sir," Cooper said. "Nothing officially posted, just a rumor going around, but these fellows all believe it. A full pardon and ten thousand in gold for any pirate ship that delivers."

"A reward for English ships?" That sounded suspiciously like an act of war.

"I don't think so, sir." Cooper was frowning uncertainly. He exchanged another handful of phrases with the skinny young pirate, and the frown grew more pronounced. "He says they're looking for... I'm not sure if I'm understanding him properly..."

"Spit it out, Mr. Cooper. What are they looking for?"

"A clock, sir."

"Bloody hell," Norrington said, "they're after the _Alexandrina_."

They weren't, of course; not specifically. All that the Esperanzas knew -- all that every damned pirate in the Spanish Main knew, apparently -- was that an English ship bearing Harrison's clock had left Portsmouth bound for Port Royal four months before, and that Spain wanted that clock. Norrington resolved to have a word with his obviously overpaid agents in Cuba and Hispaniola, none of whom had managed to pick up on the rumor.

He wondered how many of the reward-hunting pirates knew which ship they were looking for. Sawyer had not exactly been discreet during his stay in Port Royal. In fact, he had trumpeted his posession of the clock to anyone who blundered within earshot. He'd need to be warned, and the _Alexandrina_ would need to have an escort when she left Port Royal next week.

"Set course for Port Royal," Norrington ordered. "We've got what we needed here."

* * *

"What do you mean, they're gone?" Norrington glared at the harbormaster, who squirmed and shuffled his feet. "They weren't scheduled to sail until Tuesday!" 

"Yes, Commodore." The harbormaster gulped audibly. "But Captain Sawyer finished with his refitting earlier than anticipated, and apparently there's some sort of celestial phenomenon due in the southern hemisphere that Sir Bartholomew particularly wished to observe from Terra Del Fuego. The _Alexandrina_ sailed with the tide this morning. I'm sorry, sir. If I'd known you wanted them detained--"

"No, of course not." Norrington sighed. It was ridiculous to lose his temper with the man, who had done nothing wrong. The _Alexandrina_ had left port with no warning and no escort, and it was no one's fault, though Norrington, consumed by anxiety, was already thinking of twenty different ways he might've prevented it.

He looked to the end of the dock, where Gillette was supervising the removal of the prisoners from the sloop.

"Lieutenant!"

"Sir?"

"Have the _Kestrel_ made ready, I wish to sail within the hour."

* * *

Norrington paced the quarterdeck of the _Kestrel_, oblivious to the pleasantly brisk wind, the spectacular sunrise at his back, and Lieutenant Gillette's anxious glances. He'd been up and about for most of the night, though he knew perfectly well that they wouldn't be catching up with the _Alexandrina_ for hours yet, and that his visible and fidgety presence was accomplishing nothing other than to make the crew nervous. He had to keep moving, because the alternative was stopping to think, and he was hoping to avoid that for as long as possible. 

"Sir?" Gillette hovered a discreet distance away, trying hard to look as if he wasn't staring. "Captain Mayhew wants to know if you'll take breakfast with him."

The proper response to that question was "yes." The _Kestrel_ was Mayhew's first command, and he was already skittish at having his ship abruptly seized by a superior officer. From Mayhew's perspective, this was nothing more than a pirate hunt, and Norrington's presence on board robbed him of the lion's share of any credit and prize money that might result from it. He had good cause to be resentful. Snubbing his attempts at hospitality would not help matters, and Norrington had already avoided dinner the night before. But the thought of spending an hour or more making civil conversation in the captain's cabin was more than enough to put Norrington off his food.

"I don't think I'd be very good company right now. Give the captain my regrets."

Gillette looked pained. "Commodore--"

"Not now, Lieutenant." Norrington stopped in mid-pace, leaned over the rail and squinted at the horizon. Why the devil were they going so _slow_? Wasn't the _Kestrel_ supposed to be the newest claimant to the "fastest ship in the Caribbean" title?

"Lieutenant, I want you to find the boatswain. Tell him I want royals set."

"Yes, sir." Gillette eyed the rigging with a dubious expression, but left without comment. Norrington waited till he was out of sight before walking over to rest one hand on the mizen stay. For a few moments he just stood there, feeling the thrum of the rope against his palm. She'd hold, he decided. As long as the wind didn't pick up.

None of which would do any good if they were on the wrong course. Norrington had a fairly good notion of where the _Alexandrina_ was headed. Sawyer had consulted his charts and solicited his advice. But he couldn't know for certain, any more than he could know if the _Alexandrina_ was truly in danger. If Victoria was truly in danger. If the _Kestrel_ didn't catch up, it might be years before he learned if she was safe. And by then she'd be in England and he'd be wherever the navy sent him, and would she even remember or care that once she'd smiled at him in a rose garden and said she liked the Caribbean?

This was intolerable. He couldn't just stand there. Norrington spun around, gripped a shroud in each hand and hauled himself up. It had been a while since he'd done this, and he was slightly out breath by the time he swung into the crow's nest beside the startled lookout, but the effort was a welcome distraction. For a few minutes, as he scanned the horizon through his spyglass, Norrington actually felt as if he was doing something useful. The feeling died all too soon, defeated by the expanse of empy ocean ahead, but he enjoyed it while it lasted.

He dismissed the lookout and stood the rest of the watch himself, coming down only after a highly nervous midshipman climbed up to relieve him. He drilled the gunnery crew. He reviewed Mayhew's charts. He did everything he could possibly think of to stave off the creeping panic, short of getting down on his hands and knees to swab the deck, and even that was beginning to seem like an attractive prospect by the time the cry of "Sail ho!" drifted down through the rigging.

There were, in fact, two sails, partially obscured by clouds of gunsmoke. Even as Norrington watched, a flash of light illuminated the smoke, followed by a distant boom a few heartbeats later. There was no way to tell at this distance if one of the ships was the _Alexandrina,_ but the timing and the location certainly suggested it. Norrington descended from the rigging at breakneck speed, barking orders to load the guns before his feet hit the deck.

Not that it made much difference. All the urgency in the world couldn't make the wind blow harder, and the _Kestrel_ was already carrying more sail than was strictly safe. Norrington composed himself into an outward semblance of calm and went to find Mayhew. If -- when -- it came down to fighting, he'd need the other captain's knowledge of this ship and crew.

It took nearly two hours for the _Kestrel_ to approach within firing range. By then, Norrington could clearly see that one of the ships ahead was, indeed, the _Alexandrina_. Norrington didn't recognize the other, but a glimpse of a yellow flag suggested that it was the _Neptune_, a Spanish pirate-turned-privateer that had recently been making a nuisance of itself in the Bahamas under an Austrian letter of marque.

The two ships floated side by side, only a few yards apart. Both were badly damaged, but the _Alexandrina_ was by far the worse off, with her mainmast gone, her rigging in shreds and her waist smothered in black smoke. There was no fire that Norrington could see; he suspected that the smoke came from stinkpots tossed by the privateers to give cover to their boarders. He could see men fighting on the poop deck, but the situation was too chaotic to tell which side had the upper hand.

"Get the boats ready to launch," he told Mayhew. "I want all the men you can spare for the boarding party. I'll leave you to deal with the _Neptune_ as you see fit. She'll make a pretty prize if you can take her without damaging her too badly."

Mayhew looked pleased for the first time all day.

It was a great relief to finally have something useful to do. Norrington's heart beat rapidly as he armed himself, and his throat felt tight and dry, but the mechanical routine of buckling his swordbelt and loading his pistols helped him to focus. The sick fear that had gripped him since he'd first sighted the battle ahead now receded to a tiny compartment at the back of his mind, replaced by the familiar controlled tension that always preceded a fight. It wasn't a feeling Norrington had ever learned to like, but he took comfort in it now.

Time seemed to move in odd fits and starts: it took forever to launch the boats and no time at all to row over to the _Alexandrina_, though Norrington knew full well it must've been the other way around. And he never did recall, afterwards, exactly how he ended up on the _Alexandrina_'s quarterdeck with his sword in his hand and two dead men at his feet. There was just enough time to catch his breath and make certain that the blood on his coat was not his own, before another attacker flung himself down from the rigging.

It was hard to see in the smoke and the dimming twilight. Shadows rushed toward him, sword or pistol upraised, and Norrington had to wait until they were almost on top of him before he knew if he was facing friend or foe. He nearly ran Sawyer through before he recognized the man; Sawyer's face was was streaked with blood and grime, and the look in his eyes was only marginally sane. Norrington had to dodge a wild blow and bark Sawyer's name in his best commodorial voice before the captain stopped and stared at him with dawning recognition.

Norrington grabbed his arm. "Where's Victoria?" he shouted.

Sawyer looked as if he didn't quite understand the words. Norrington shook him roughly. "Miss Talbot! Where is she?"

"Down in the hold." Sawyer glanced around uncertainly. "I think."

She was likely safe, then, or as safe as anyone could be under the circumstances. Norrington let Sawyer go and flung himself back into the fighting.

It didn't last long. The privateers, brave enough when facing a weaker opponent, quickly lost their stomach for battle when faced with the Royal Navy. They put up only a brief show of resistance before beginning a disorderly retreat toward the _Neptune_ where, if the sound of gunfire was any indication, Mayhew had matters well in hand. Norrington waited for Sawyer to give word that the ship was secured before he grabbed a lantern and headed for the nearest hatch.

He was halfway down the ladder when a pistol shot struck the beam above his head, showering him with splinters.

"Come no closer!" A voice called from below. "I have plenty more shot where that came from!"

"Victoria?" Norrington nearly burst out laughing from sheer relief. "It's all right; it's safe now."

"Commodore?" There was a rustling somewhere below, followed by a burst of furious barking, followed by a scraping sound, as if something heavy was being shoved out of the way. "James? Is that you?"

"Yes." Norrington came down two more steps, wishing he'd brought a better light. The hold was dark and the bottom of the ladder was now swathed in smoke from Victoria's pistol shot. "Do try not to shoot me as I come down."

"I'm sorry." There was more rustling, and one of the shadows moved forward. "It's hard to see with the light behind y-- _Look out!_"

Norrington never got a chance to see what he was supposed to be looking out for. He'd just started to turn when another shot rang out. A moment later, something heavy and bulky struck him from above, knocking the lantern from his hand and pitching him head-first down the ladder. He heard a clatter and a scream, and then the shadows closed in.

**Chapter 6**

"I don't mean to criticize," Norrington said, "but the next time the situation arises, you might wish to consider that if you shoot a man standing at the top of a ladder, he's likely to fall _down_ that ladder, knocking over everything in his path. Such as, say, a commodore of the Royal Navy."

"You must be feeling better," said Victoria. "You're speaking in complete sentences again."

Norrington _was_ feeling better, in fact. He'd spent nearly twenty-four hours unconscious before awakening in the naval hospital in Fort Charles with an infernal headache and a lovely goose egg (more like an ostrich egg, from the feel of it) on the back of his skull. For two days, all he could do was lie there and moan piteously at the vaguely human-shaped blurs who kept blundering into his room with water and soup and medicine, and making far too much noise. This morning, however, he'd awakened with cleared vision and only a mild throbbing behind his temples. He was now having tea and toast served to him by Victoria, who didn't look nearly contrite enough.

"What was I supposed to do?" she demanded. "He was sneaking up -- or, rather, down -- behind you with a cutlass."

"You could've said, 'James, there's a privateer behind you with a cutlass.' I'm trained to handle such contingencies, you know."

"Humph. He could've slit your throat five times while I was getting all that out. And why are you yelling at me, anyway? You should be yelling at Captain Sawyer, for saying the ship was secure when it wasn't."

"I'm not yelling at anyone. I've been forbidden to yell. Doctor's orders."

"You should follow them, then." Victoria took the teacup from his hands, refilled it, and handed it back to him. "Really. Aside from any aversion I might have to being yelled at, I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

"I feel fine," Norrington grumbled. "I wish people would stop fussing. You're almost as bad as Lieutenant Gillette."

Victoria smiled tolerantly and took a piece of toast from his plate. "People fuss," she said, "because people are fond of you. And you have given us all a horrible scare."

"Which was entirely your fault."

"And I'm trying very hard to make amends for it. Look -- I'm buttering your toast. That's how conscience-stricken I am. I intend to fuss until you forgive me."

"In that case, I forgive you immediately."

"Wonderful! I would've hated to leave Port Royal thinking you were angry with me."

"You know perfectly well I was never angry with you." Norrington suddenly found himself unable to look anywhere except into his teacup. It offered no inspiration. After a while, he put it on the tray next to the bed and clasped his hands in his lap. "Please don't leave," he said.

There was a soft clink as Victoria put her cup down too. "I beg your pardon?"

He'd thought it would be easier, once he actually broached the subject. He'd been wrong. Already, he could feel his hands sweating, his shoulders tensing, and a remnant of his ruthlessly eradicated childhood stutter clawing its way up his throat. He hadn't felt this nervous before battle. In fact, there was only one recent occasion on which he'd felt this nervous, and that wasn't exactly a memory to inspire confidence.

"I said, don't go. Let your father hire himself a secretary, if he needs one so badly. I'll hire him one myself, if I must."

"Commodore--"

"I can't promise to take you around the world. But the Caribbean isn't the first place I've been posted, and it won't be the last. It won't be a dull life, I don't think." He ventured a smile. "Not much call for crocheted tea cozies in my household."

"James." Victoria was looking very pale all of a sudden. Norrington hoped she wasn't going to faint. "Was that supposed to be an offer of marriage?"

"Of course. Didn't I just say so?" Actually, now that he thought about it, he hadn't. Bloody hell. "I'm sorry. I seem to have no knack at all for marriage proposals."

"I wouldn't say--"

"I rehearsed the last one for a week, and still made a complete disaster of it."

"It's really not--"

"I thought, perhaps, if I improvised this time--"

"James." Victoria rose, somewhat unsteadily, from her chair and sat on the edge of his bed instead. "There was nothing wrong with that proposal. It was quite perfect."

"Oh." He thought that over for a moment. "Was it... acceptable, then?"

And there was that smile again, the one that made his breath hitch a little when he saw it. "Perfectly acceptable."

She was sitting so close, it took no effort at all, especially for a man who knew he could blame it on a concussion later, to reach out and let her hair down. The results lived up to everything he'd dared to hope for.

The nurse who came to take away the tea tray ten minutes later received the shock of her life.

The End


End file.
